


(the lazy sensuality of smoke rising upwards)

by lazaefair



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: First Meeting, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 22:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11045556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazaefair/pseuds/lazaefair
Summary: The corner of Îmwe’s mouth curls up. “Kyber crystals form within the very matrix of the Force. The Temple guards one of the largest deposits in the galaxy. You think the Jedi Order are the only people interested in that kind of power?” He raises a hand, fingers stiffened into an imaginary blade, and chops down. “We are no strangers to bloodshed.”Vignette on one of the possible first meetings between Baze the Mercenary and Chirrut the Monk. Ignores the Guardians of the Whills novel.





	(the lazy sensuality of smoke rising upwards)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by these [gorgeous photos](http://lazaefair.tumblr.com/post/156917402105/the-lazy-sensuality-of-smoke-rising-upwards-my) posted by chirrutimwe-rogueone.
> 
> My thanks to [em2mb](http://archiveofourown.org/users/em2mb/pseuds/em2mb) for working out the structure of this piece.

“My name is Chirrut Îmwe. I’m looking for Baze Malbus,” the blind monk says, little white wisps curling from his lips, disturbed by the puff of air when he says ‘Baze.’

The man in question leans back in his chair with a crackle of old wood and takes a draw from his own cigarette. Sweet nicotiana in his nose, warm burning rush in his lungs. Baze did a good turn for the proprietor once, which is why they’re in a little curtained-off nook instead of enduring the general chaos of the main room. Light filters through the curtains in stripes across the monk’s face, illuminating his unsettling eyes - pale blue-white to match the smoke lovingly wreathed around his head.

“No one’s here who goes by that name.”

Îmwe scoffs through his nose and smiles. “Pffft, don’t give me that space rot. I set out from the holy city to find Baze Malbus, and Baze Malbus I will find, whether he’s willing to answer to the name or not.”

Self-assurance positively radiates from the man, which is well and good, but Baze finds that kind of thing irritating when it’s directed at him. “You’re a Guardian, aren’t you? What would one of the great holy ones be doing outside the Temple looking for somebody like that?”

"Guardians leave the Temple all the time. We are charged with ministering to our flocks every day, after all," Îmwe says with no trace of irony that Baze can discern.

_“Yáng_ don't tend to wander far into this district."

"I think you might be surprised."

Baze snorts and takes another draw, letting Îmwe wait, stretching the moment out as he exhales and watches the smoke unfurl like Xydorian ferns at dusk. "Assassination is dirty work," he says, finally. "Are you going lie and tell me your abbot knows that one of her monks is down here, at this time of night, stooping to this level?"

Îmwe looks at him, all serious mouth and sightless eyes gleaming in spillover light. "The strongest stars have hearts of kyber," he intones. “And when the stars bleed, so too do the hearts of living creatures.” 

"I don't have time for mystical nonsense," Baze interrupts. "Get to the point."

The corner of Îmwe’s mouth curls up. “Kyber crystals form within the very matrix of the Force. The Temple guards one of the largest deposits in the galaxy. You think the Jedi Order are the only people interested in that kind of power?” He raises a hand, fingers stiffened into an imaginary blade, and chops down. “We are no strangers to bloodshed.”

At the casual mention of the Order, Baze has to work to keep his face blank. For all his mercenary lifestyle these days, he’s still native-born Jedhan - raised from childhood with religious tales that are dismissed as fairy stories on far more sophisticated, secular planets. Mystical nonsense, sure. But he knows there’s more than a grain of truth to the superstition surrounding the Jedi.

Or the Guardians, for that matter. It’s the only reason why he hasn’t kicked this curious monk out already. “Killing for the sake of your duty is one thing. It’s still worlds away from putting a hit out.”

Îmwe drops his hand, picks up the cigar he’d left leaning against the ashtray. “Who said anything about a hit?”

“You…” Baze clamps his cigarette between his teeth, resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Of course you want a hit. You asked for me by name.”

“Ha! I thought you said there was no Baze Malbus here.” _Shit._ Îmwe’s face splits into a grin and he points at Baze with the cigar. “Isn’t that right, Jaa Cyone,” he drawls out Baze’s current alias, insolent as a child who’s just won at knucklebones.

“We’re done here,” Baze says shortly and stubs his cigarette out. To hell with superstitious fear. He shoves his chair back and stands. “I’ll tell the proprietor to give you safe passage out of the district. But he’ll also know not to allow you into this establishment again. Now go.” 

Îmwe doesn’t move a muscle, just tilts his head back and goes completely still, save for the faint trail of smoke still wafting from his hand. His smile sinks down into a stubborn line, and Baze suppresses a frustrated groan.

“I’m not above throwing a blind man out if I have to,” he warns. 

Îmwe does move, then, but just to bring the cigar to his lips. “It brings me joy to hear that,” he says in a fragrant cloud, “since the people who are trying to kill me may resort to dirty tricks. I’d want my bodyguard to be as ruthless as they.”

Bodyguard? Baze squints at him. Jaa Cyone is the alias with the credentials and reputation for general mercenary work. People who ask for _Baze Malbus_ come looking for him to do one thing, and one thing only. Yet, this monk, who shouldn’t have known anything about such nuances in the galaxy’s black underbelly in the first place, had arrived here inquiring about that very specific name, and had been insistent about it to the point of badly spooking the proprietor when ze had first led Îmwe into the nook before an unimpressed Baze. 

“You should have told the proprietor you wanted to hire Jaa Cyone when you walked in,” he says, annoyed. “Save everyone a lot of time and trouble from the beginning.”

“I’m not asking Jaa Cyone.” Îmwe sounds just as annoyed, which is rich. He leans forward, spacing his words out with an intensity that matches his narrowed eyes. “I’m asking _Baze. Malbus.”_

Baze should be doing a number of things in response to that - scoffing, turning him down again, striding out to signal the proprietor. A blind monk from the most ancient temple on Jedha, who apparently has a death mark on his head from mysterious enemies who are dangerous enough to warrant leaving the safety of the temple walls and walking into a known mercenary haunt in the seediest district of NiJedha, to ask for the most dangerous assassin in the system by an alias that he shouldn’t have known in the first place. 

And yet.

Something about the way Îmwe says Baze’s full name this last time - not flippant, not triumphant, not with airy expectation, but with a considered reverence. An invocation that near punches the air out of Baze’s lungs. 

Îmwe turns his hand palm-up on the table.

Like a man in a dream, Baze reaches down and clasps his hand to Îmwe’s, lifeline to lifeline. And resigns himself to the chagrin that rises in the back of his mind as he watches Îmwe’s face break into the widest, gummiest, most sincerely joyful smile he’s ever witnessed.

“We have a deal, then,” he says.


End file.
